


Betrayal

by woodedmoss



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Drug Use, Implied Necrophilia, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Not Canon Compliant, Unnamed characters - Freeform, bugs tw, implied lich (?), its just law being law man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 23:15:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19365697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodedmoss/pseuds/woodedmoss
Summary: It is hungry,but there is only water,and more water,and more water,and





	Betrayal

The silence was always comforting. 

 

To hear the crickets chirping, to hear the trees breathe. It was as if something was calling to the outlier, as if something was crying to it, 

 

_ come home, come back, your home, you need to stay where you belong.  _

 

And, the outlier knew it was true. It knew the woods spoke the truth, that the trees spoke more lovingly than any human could, that the forest declared its affection.

 

It knew it needed to listen, but it never did. It never listened to anything.

 

It didn’t listen to its mother crying for it to stay, it didn’t listen to its sisters telling it that it could be normal, that it had a chance to be a normal member of their family. It didn’t listen to the people who begged him to not show them the River 

 

(foolish),

 

to the people who begged him to get it over with because they were terrified. 

 

It didn’t listen to the creature that told it to stay in the River, that it needed to lay down. Rest would come easy, but eventually, the creature stopped, saying that it made its choice, and no other choices would be granted. This was the life it chose, this was the life it wanted to keep. 

 

Sometimes, it would wonder about a life beyond this one, a life beyond self inflicted death, a life beyond any life. There was one, and it wanted to find it, and keep it. A game of cat and mouse, where no party is the cat, and no party is the mouse. It is simply a game, between patrons unchosen, with rules never to be set, morals never to be balanced upon.

 

It wasn’t human. 

 

It didn’t want to be.

 

-

 

10:15 P.M. was when Lawrence’s alarm rang, waking him from his restless sleep. He never slept good any more, and he could never figure out why. Maybe it was his paranoia that kept him up, despite the multitude of self-installed locks on his door. Maybe it was the teas he drank, the drugs he ingested. He wouldn’t really know, either. 

 

His nightly (well, morning) routine was the same, as it was most nights. 

 

He would get up, making his way to the bathroom, before brushing his teeth and hair. Then, he would change his sweatpants, and put on a shirt, only turning on the lamps when he was dressed. He would make himself something small to eat, just so his stomach didn’t  annoyingly rumble while he was at work, and then he would put shoes and socks on, jacket following depending on the weather. 

It was basically muscle memory, the only real difference being what he ate in the morning, his shirt, and sometimes his toothpaste, which was just baking soda and water, maybe some peppermint extract too. 

Now, he was done with his morning routine, pulling the sheet back onto his bed before looking for his car keys, and unlocking his door. 

Work… was work, really. He didn’t like it, but he liked that he was lucky enough to not have a social job. It was quiet, and the people there respected his wishes to mostly be left alone, not one for small talk. 

The redhead would always ask how many boxes were left before their break, and how many more were left before their shifts were over. Sometimes, Lawrence answered, sometimes, another person did. It just depended on if he was in the warehouse, or in the back of the truck that he was unloading. 

Lawrence also didn’t speak much during his lunch break, simply driving off to the local convenience store and buying a sandwich, or something else, and going back. He’d wipe the sweat that accumulated by his forehead off, and he would sometimes sketch in his car, taking out a ratty book to draw something simple. 

A lot of his drawings were plain. Plants in his house, skulls of different animals, people he saw nearby that he thought looked well enough to keep forever

(he needed to check the man he left behind. What made a home in him?).

Then, he’d keep working, loyal to his routine. It wasn’t a bad job, or a bad routine. It kept his bills paid, it gave him something to do, and it left him alone. 

Lawrence was always fond of the way the world seemed to still between three and six, though. People were meant to be asleep, yet, some weren’t, starting to wake. It seemed to affect the way the air moved, and it seemed to affect the way the grass swayed. When the sun rose, and his shift was over, the stillness always stopped, and he was always thrown face first back into the waking world. 

Good thing he wouldn’t be awake, though. 

From there, he would go back home, and he would check the mail (and maybe pay his bills), strip, shower, change clothes. Brew some tea, water his plants, turn the lamps off, and sleep. 

Lawrence lived a simple life, and it was the life he wanted to live.

 

-

Tonight was not a normal night. 

Lawrence was pissed. 

There was somebody in his home. Somebody disturbing him. 

Some fucking parasite

(ironic).

Tied to a chair and gagged, the newcomer looked terrified. It was a look that suited them. 

Lawrence stood behind them, and lovingly caressed their spine, before moving to where they could see him. 

A mental image of his fantasies stood front and center in his mind, upon seeing their face. They would look good with blood slowly oozing down their chest, with their blood slowly and gradually dripping down the chair and onto his floor. Their chest should be split- it would be beyond gorgeous to be able to see everything. To be able to see the real beauty behind them. 

Their heart, their ribs… how elegant would the curve be? Would their ribs be even? Would they all be aligned properly? 

Oh, and their spine… God, it was so fucking beautiful from inside their skin, how beautiful would it be outside? Drenched in a crimson sheen, he could guarantee that it would have a lovely hue. Of course, there was always the issue of skin and pesky tissues in the way, and he wouldn’t be able to start splitting them open and taking them apart until after he was in the forest

(there was that one time Mr. Davidson had come downstairs just as Lawrence was hauling a suspiciously shaped bag down to his car, and Lawrence was startled to the point of almost instinctively lunging for him. The conversation was awkward, and he lived in a drowning lake of paranoia for the next three weeks, startling at any sirens outside). 

He shamed the person in front of him for needing to bother him when they had, because, if they hadn’t, they wouldn’t be here. They startled him, and like a frightened animal, he needed to fight for his ensured safety

(if it was ensured, then there wouldn’t be-).

Hm, no. He didn’t like those thoughts. They had to go. Too noisy in his own head.

-

Lawrence gave the person a lopsided smile, turning his head. He never asked for their name, and they never asked for his. Not while the man, clearly in power, loomed over them. 

There was something unsettling about him. 

Something unstable. 

He reached over to the table on his right, and picked up a small knife. 

“Did you know there are two more terms for our ribs? False, and floating. The false ribs are just under the actual ribs. They’re called that because they aren’t attached to the sternum. The floating ribs are under those, labelled that because they’re just… there. Not attached to any set of ribs. Only the spine.” Lawrence hummed, before chuckling. “Of course, you can’t answer. It’s better that way. I didn’t like when you spoke.”

The person let out a whimper, and Lawrence’s nose wrinkled. Stepping closer, the blonde suddenly straddled their legs, and harshly cut down their shirt. 

He pulled it away with no regards as to what was under it, narrowing his eyes. 

“You’re so… delicate. I could break you and you would suffer. I could do anything to you, and make you feel it. You couldn’t do anything about it. Why would you? You know your life is temporary… either way… you’re going to see it too,” Lawrence whispered, and the person could assume that he wasn’t speaking to them any more.

Regardless, it didn’t stop a scared sob from tearing its way from their throat, and while muffled, still loud enough to make Lawrence jump in their lap. 

He didn’t like that. 

A low growl emanated from Lawrence, before the knife found a home in their stomach. 

The person cried out, tears steadily streaming down their cheeks. Lawrence paid this no mind, one of his hands shooting up to hold their throat, a direct threat for silence as he cut through their flesh and muscle with ease. 

Blood soaked Lawrence’s pants, and the floor, but he also paid no mind to that. He had a goal, and his goal was to-

-

If you listen closely, the trees can speak to you.

They can whisper hurriedly, they can praise you, curse you.

 

If you’re unwelcome in the forest, you’ll know. Something will happen to let you know that, like a bear, or a sudden storm. If you’re welcome and wanted, you’ll know as well.

Sometimes, if you pay close attention, you can see each system working with one another in tandem. 

An oak tree that roots next to a flowing creek, providing the tree with plenty of water. Underneath, a fox lay, her kits drinking the water, taking pleasure in the shade of the tree, in the fish and birds. Next to her, a squirrel runs up the tree, taking acorns to feed its own family. 

Your presence benefits something.

You drop dead skin, you pick up trash, you give to the ecosystem. 

Your presence harms something.

You step on the tunnels worms make, you take the wrong plant, you disturb a nest. 

There is mutualism in everything. 

-

10:15 P.M. was when Lawrence’s alarm rang, waking him from his restless sleep. He never slept good any more, and he could never figure out why. Maybe it was his paranoia that kept him up, despite the multitude of self-installed locks on his door. Maybe it was the teas he drank, the drugs he ingested. He wouldn’t really know, either. 

Didn’t he just do this?

The redundancy of his days merged into one. It got boring. 

Today, he had no work. He called out, not willing to see people today. He had things he wanted to do, places he wanted to be. 

Carefully, Lawrence spent some well-deserved time with his plants. Gardening was a hobby that often relaxed Lawrence, simply because it was quiet. It was quiet, and it was something he could control. He could determine when a plant would live and die, when it got water, when it got light. 

Plus, they couldn’t talk. Or cry. Or hurt him 

(he had wandered off to make some tea, picking up a mortar and pestle. He owned premade blends, but sometimes it was better to make his own. It was usually to benefit himself, to make himself high, sometimes it was to boil and make some sort of medicine with. It really  depended on his main motive. For now, he just wanted some tea, and he had catnip and mint leaves to crush and put in his steeper).

People could. If Lawrence could have a garden full of people, versus a garden full of plants, he would choose the latter. It wasn’t just about sound, or dependency. Now, it was about the root of all evil, the nature of man. 

He wasn’t political, nor did he have a religious outlook on life, but Lawrence often saw humans as the natural downfall of man. 

When compared to a group of deer, humans failed. They didn’t work together, they didn’t fight like nature intended to, they took what wasn’t theirs, and they didn’t understand death. None of them did. Deer at least understood what would most likely kill them, and what wouldn’t, asides from darkened roads at night. He couldn’t blame the deer, though- the roads were once forest, and the deer had to cross, somehow.

Often, Lawrence would think about the relation of flowers to his plants, and the correlation between something so false, and something so real. Honesty and a lie. But, if he had to choose a flower, he would choose poppies. They were his favorite flower, and the only one he willingly accepted, the only flower he could lose himself in. 

Flowers were also false because they had meaning. There was a language based around flowers, a language he knew from high school when he desperately tried to profess his closeted feelings for girls who didn’t know him. He would make a bouquet that translated to a meaning- please, love me, see me, I’m here- and then drop it off on their doorstep. The girls were always frightened by it, or they always assumed it was from somebody else. 

Never the kid in biology that nobody noticed. Never the kid in algebra who never spoke. Never the kid in history who everybody forgot. 

A life of secrecy was as nice as it was lonely, but he was glad none of them ever found out it was him. The embarrassment of that alone would have surely struck him dead.

Poppies represent sleep, peace, and death. They could be manipulated for opium extracts, and used as a sedative. Their color was associated with blood. And, they were often offered to the dead. 

They were truly gorgeous. 

Forget-me-nots were a close second. They weren’t the same as poppies, but they had some sort of fog around them. Maybe it was the name that drew some people in. When he was a child, he used to play a game with those flowers. 

He would sit somewhere unbothered, while peeling each petal off. 

She loves me, she loves me not. She loves me, she loves me not.

 

Honestly, it proved to be quite ironic, but… they were pretty. Even for something so false, for something that belittles its owners and shames its master. 

Now, with tea, he decided to pull his only chair up and sit at one of his tables, admiring the plants. Admiring the effort that went into keeping themselves alive, that went into natural growth and development. 

His fingers absentmindedly trailed along the leaves of one of his potted plants, rubbing the leaf with his thumb and forefinger. It was smooth, and he smiled to himself. They were so compliant…

Lawrence wasn’t sure how long he sat there, touching his plants, getting a sensory feel for them while he pruned and trimmed the ones that needed it, sipping a blend that calmed him and threatened to lull him back to sleep if he wasn’t motivated enough to stay awake.

In a last effort to stay awake and not spend his day sleeping, he took his car to the forest. A visit was due, anyways, to check up on his projects, to say hello to the souls who praised his existence, and to say hello to the ones who offered themselves up for the sake of his projects. He was lucky their strings tied together, even if it was temporary. He would make sure that they weren’t temporary. 

The trees sang his arrival, praised his existence. He absently wondered if this is where he was meant to stay for the rest of eternity, but he keeps walking. He let his feet crush dead leaves and sticks as he walked, allowed his fingers to trail against rough bark as he pressed forwards. 

The scent greeted Lawrence before the sight did, and he stopped to breathe in deep. It seemed like the forest was telling him that new homes had been found, that his art served more than one purpose. It was all he’d ever wanted from life, anyways. 

And, truthful to his imagination, he was quick to see that he was right. 

It had been a few days since he checked up on the man, but it was lovely- the gift that came from his giving

(always giving, always giving, when will he give too much?).

There, nestled deep where the man’s heart should be, hundreds of maggots squirmed. His chest cavity had been split open to allow for easier viewing, and the removal of organs, which was a lovely sight all in its own. 

The man’s skin was crawling, too, in ways it shouldn’t be crawling. Nature was reclaiming an estranged soul, and it was taking back what it had lost.

 

Mushrooms had started to sprout on the tree, directly behind where his body was propped up, and Lawrence crouched down to run a tender hand over his cheek, thumb lovingly caressing along the man's gaunt eye socket until a greedy worm spilled from the recesses of his eye. 

“You were so scared… I can see that you’re in peace, now…” Lawrence crooned at the man, before standing up to search for his latest gift to the forest. 

There, the person was, and Lawrence felt a blush rising to his cheeks. 

They were pinned up against a series of three trees that had bunched together. 

Similar to a crucifix, their hands had been nailed through the palms, to the trees on the side, while their feet had been nailed to the main tree. 

The skin and muscle of their stomach had also been split open and pinned to the side tree, revealing rotting organs, rotting flesh, decaying muscle. It was obvious a fox, or some other predator, had visited this piece during the night and taken something, since there were prominent bite marks along their calf that spilled maggots. 

Lawrence sighed at the sight, a smile on his face, before he absentmindedly reached into the cavity of their chest. His hands weren’t doing anything besides looking, besides feeling. He was memorizing this, savoring the moment. 

It wasn’t often that he was kissed by beauty, that he was lucky enough to get to even see the product of his work. It was risky, and not even he knew what he’d do if he was caught. 

-

It took his body. 

When he wasn’t using it. 

It howled and cried and whined.

It was hungry. 

So fucking hungry,

but nothing to eat. 

Just water. 

And more water. 

And more water.

And more water,

 

and. 

-

Sometimes, Lawrence wondered if he should tell his coworkers about the River. 

Of course, none of them would believe him. He was the guy who looked like he masturbated in his spare time, or got endlessly stoned and  _ then  _ masturbated. 

But, sometimes he wondered. He wondered if he should put down the box he was carrying, letting the sweat drip down his back, before boldly announcing that there was a gorgeous place that anybody could visit, regardless or merit, wit, race, class, gender, or religion. 

Maybe the River was the heaven everybody spoke of so fondly. 

Lawrence sure liked it. It was like a secondary home to him, a place where he could go to quite literally forget it all, a place where he felt safe in the white noise and the confirmation that he was completely alone. 

The first time he saw it, he was young. Too young to realize he had drowned, but old enough to realize that he wasn’t in the real world. It was gorgeous in the eyes of a seven year old, and it remained gorgeous in the eyes of a twenty-seven year old. 

He never said anything, though. Not about the River, at least. Just about how many boxes he thought there were in the main truck, before they moved to the secondary trucks, and about how many boxes before they could leave and sleep. 

And, honestly?

Maybe they didn’t deserve to see it. 

-

It was hungry. 

It needed to eat,

it needed to eat, 

it needed to eat, 

but there was only water. 

It was lonely, 

and isolated.

-

Lawrence made a friend. 

The thought of which made him even bashful to think about- one person, one person… they wanted to know him…! They… wanted to know him, they wanted to talk to him, they didn’t judge him. Well, they may, but he wouldn’t know. He could only see the messages that bubbled through his computer screen. 

The stranger’s name was Ren. He seemed eager, young, and enthusiastic. Lawrence would be lying if he said it didn’t frighten him a little bit, but… somebody wanted to know him. Somebody wanted to talk to him about a common interest, and somebody was interested in maybe even seeing him beyond what he was physically. 

It was all by sheer coincidence, too. Lawrence found a website 

(his computer was ancient, it was a mystery that it even turned on)

for people like him, people with similar tastes. He had made a bio, chosen no avatar, and let people pick and choose if they wanted to come to him or not. 

And, sure enough, ‘BeastBoy1995’ messaged Lawrence, striking a conversation about Lawrence’s interests of gardening and collecting animal bones. 

They talked for about a week, on and off, before Ren invited Lawrence to a nearby bar, the Jackalope. 

Lawrence had replied that the other shouldn’t know where he lived, before Ren shot a laughing emoji back. 

[BeastBoy1995: U gotta be near here! U mentioned stores and streets that I live close to!!!!! xxDD OwO]

Ren replied in full, making Lawrence’s face heat up, and a sense of paranoia wash over him. 

[serpulalacrymans: gtg]

And thus, the conversation ended for the next three days, before Lawrence chalked it up enough to reply again. 

[serpulalacrymans: i work nights so itll have to be at night hope you dont mind]

[BeastBoy1995: Heyo!! That works hehe x3 would u say 1 works?]

 

[serpulalacrymans: yeah sure…]

It was set in stone, and Lawrence had a friend. 

-

The bar wasn’t his favorite place to be. 

He felt out of place

(he was).

And, honestly, he felt very self conscious. He was more than aware of his surroundings, of his height, of his clothes. Most of the patrons still here were dressed in casual dresses, wearing smooth shoes with slim jackets. 

Lawrence, however, looked as if he had just crawled out of his own grave, wearing sweatpants and a tucked in flannel, underneath a heavy and oversized jacket. The most effort he’d put in to his appearance was his ponytail, which had been messily brushed to avoid matting or painful knots. 

A small hand on Lawrence’s shoulder made him jump out of his skin, before he turned around, eyes meeting a short redhead. 

“Are you Lawrence?”

-

He woke up on a white couch, a feeling of unease washing over him. 

This wasn’t his house. 

This wasn’t his fucking house. 

This wasn’t his  _ fucking house.  _

“Hey!” A cheery voice chriped. “You’re awake!” 

Lawrence’s head whipped around, a nervous sweat breaking out on the back of his neck as he noticed the chain on his ankle, the collar around his neck. 

“Ren?” Lawrence asked, before his eyes narrowed, the realization setting in. 

“You’ve been asleep for a while! I… was worried I gave you too much, to be honest… you were a lot bigger than I thought, and I kind of panicked… but that’s okay! You’re here now!” Ren laughed, a grin on his face 

 

(the ears and tail went unnoticed, masked by betrayal, masked by fear).

Lawrence stood up, his eyebrows knitted together. 

“Woah… uh… sit back down.” Ren commanded, his shoulders tensing at the visible change in Lawrence, in the way his eyes darkened and narrowed, in the way his lips drew together into a thin curve. This wasn’t the same guy he met at the bar, but that was a little hypocritical of him to say. “Now,” Ren warned, fingers feeling for the remote to the shock collar

(he swore Lawrence’s shadow was larger, showing antlers, showing a faint blue glow where Lawrence’s eyes were).

It lumbered forwards, the air growing heavy,

it shot a hand out towards Ren’s neck, 

it met its target, 

it was so fucking hungry. 

-

10:15 P.M. was when Lawrence’s alarm rang, waking him from his restless sleep. He slept particularly bad last night, plagued by paranoia, staring at his heavily locked door all night. 

He came home with no recollection of what happened, shedding his clothes and standing under the shower until he started to sob. Eventually he sat down on the floor of his bathtub, curled up in on himself. With his hair sticking to his skin, he sobbed until he couldn’t cry any more, until his throat wheezed and his lungs burned, until his sinuses cleared and he felt numb and empty.

He’d made a cup of tea, and smoked some weed 

(something he seldom did in favor of opioids and stronger drugs, but right now, he didn’t want to feel, and for once, he didn’t want to see the River), 

before settling down in his bed and watching the sun rise once more. 

That’s all Lawrence knew his night to be, before realizing his alarm had been ringing the whole time. 

Turning onto his side, he turned the noise off, before turning back once more. He didn’t want to go to work. 

He wanted to think of a way to get back, a way to cry without having to cry, a way to feel without having to feel. He wanted to feel something else- he wanted to feel  _ someone  _ else. Skin, joints, bones, all of it. Lawrence wanted to make his empty hole of betrayal full again.

Somebody wanted him, but not for the reasons he had thought. The one time he amounted to  _ anything-  _

Hm. 

He would have to think deep. 

Lawrence allowed himself to still into a moment of rest, into a moment of mind numbing static, where his legs and arms and head all felt like they didn’t exist. 

-

The silence was always comforting. 

To hear the crickets chirping, to hear the trees breathe. It was as if something was calling to the outlier, as if something was crying to it, 

_ come home, come back, your home, you need to stay where you belong.  _

It didn’t want to listen, and it wouldn’t listen. It would keep going, even as the wind blew its hair, even as the water soaked its clothes. It would keep going, and it wouldn’t stop, not until it was satisfied, not until it was satiated. 

Maybe that wasn’t so bad. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I can apparently only write greasy men :(
> 
> Loosely based off of the thing Gato said where he works a night shift as a grunt laborer. 
> 
> I made a mistake and deleted this note a few hours ago, while trying to update something else, so I can't remember what I said. Whoops.


End file.
